


Married Life Verse

by alilactree



Category: Glee
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Married Life, Married Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alilactree/pseuds/alilactree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine's married life in New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Carry Your Heart

They end up staying in Bushwick for now; it’s easier to look for a place and to move nearby. Blaine’s commute isn’t as fast as Kurt’s, but it is right on the L line, with a stop just around the corner. Their new apartment is significantly smaller, not significantly cheaper, but enough so that the two of them can afford it on part time jobs and student loans and just a little help from both of their families.

A third floor, six hundred square foot, one bedroom prewar box with scuffed pale wood floors and white walls, a kitchen that requires complex choreography to accommodate both of them at the same time and the tiniest, thinnest closet Blaine has ever seen. Just one.

But it’s nothing that some ingenuity and Ikea storage systems can’t solve, and ultimately it feels bigger. Like Blaine isn’t desperately trying to steal away a place for himself in the wide open floor plan of a loft that never felt like home. At a school that always seemed like Kurt’s. In a city that seemed to belong to everyone else.

He fixes his hair in the oval mirror still fogged with steam, can hear Kurt banging around in the kitchen through the paper-thin walls; the creaky pipes as he fills the tea kettle. The click click whoosh of the two-burner gas stove. The rattle and slam of the refrigerator door being opened and closed. It’s a fresh start. Like coming back and trying again and getting it right this time.

He used to believe there were no second chances. He had to do his absolute best the first time or why bother. As he finishes breakfast and kisses Kurt goodbye, he wonders now if that’s all that life really is. The getting back up and trying again after being knocked down. Over and over and over.

Since he’s a mid-semester transfer, Blaine gets stuck with whatever classes haven’t been snatched up already. Which means early morning classes. His ride to campus starts off quiet, he can read or study or text Skywalker family headcanons with Sam. About halfway there the train fills up rapidly with morning commuters, and at some point Blaine always offers his seat up, stands crowded against a pole with hands and legs and bags banging into his sides, trying to look out the window and pretend that guy’s armpit isn’t right in his face.

He does manage to snag a spot in Politics in the Arts and one in Queer Theory: Past and Present. Two classes NYADA doesn’t even have.

At first he feels lost at Tisch. But after it stops sitting heavy and panicky in his gut that he has no idea where anything is or who anyone is, it’s kind of nice. Freeing. He can be whatever he wants. Not that he has any desire to change himself dramatically, or be someone he’s not. But the first time he sits in Intro to Performance Studies with a button up shirt only tucked in on one side, dark wash jeans and high top Converse, his hair a little more free than usual, he likes that he has the option.

It’s nearly a month before he spots a familiar face.

Some of the students gather near the fountain in Washington Square Park at lunchtime. Blaine is sitting with two girls from his Wednesday study group, a few of the castmates he played opposite with in an in-class production of The Tempest, and Gary from his politics in the arts class who looks like the most normal person possible, but spends his weekends in an experimental scream-metal band. His voice is always shot on Mondays. Blaine thinks he’s great.

The fountain gushes and the wind ruffles his hair, his legs stretched out on the steps in front of him, his face tipped up to the spring sunshine as he eats the sandwich Kurt made him—Kurt doesn’t have any classes before noon, lucky duck—just listening to the chatter around him. He feels so content and happy that he doesn’t notice him at first. Just his boots.

Blaine tilts his head. Black combat boots. Purple glittery laces. He knows those boots.

“Elliott?”

“Hey!” Elliott grins, plops down next to him, and nudges Blaine with his elbow. “About time we ran into each other!”

Blaine still feels a little awkward around him. He’s over the jealousy. Beyond over it. He never really made that completely clear to Elliott, even though they left things on amicable terms. And when he and Kurt broke up well—Elliott was Kurt’s friend. Not his.

Still. “Hi, how are you?” Blaine holds his hand out for Elliott to shake.

Elliott scowls at it. “Come on! We’re buds. We jammed and everything.” Blaine laughs, looks down and shakes his head. Elliott leans forward to Blaine’s lunch group and asks, “Has he told you about the song we wrote? Guaranteed radio hit, I’m telling you.”

Blaine laughs again and begs him not to, but Elliott barrels on anyway, sings Glitter Rock Vampire, and then explains the story behind it while Blaine blushes and hides his face with his hands. It’s nice, though. Being around someone as confident and guileless and fun as Elliott.

They start meeting for lunch every day. On Monday evenings he goes with Elliott to yoga and a juice bar after. Tuesday and Thursday nights Kurt works, but instead of dropping by the diner to study and nurse a milkshake and watch Kurt be adorable in his uniform, Blaine finds clubs and an improv group and impromptu meet ups on campus.

One Friday Elliott invites him out to a show with his new band.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to cancel on Rachel?” Kurt adjusts Blaine’s already perfectly adjusted bow tie, his knuckles brushing Blaine’s collarbones and the knot of his throat.

“You promised to help her rehearse,” Blaine points out. “She’s been freaking out about this showcase all week.”

Kurt steps back, assesses Blaine’s outfit and then nods in satisfaction. “She’ll understand.” He pouts a little. “I feel like haven’t seen you much lately.”

Blaine kisses his pout away. “I’m just gonna pop in to be supportive. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone,” Blaine promises. “I’ll miss you.”

Kurt smiles and kisses him again. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

He does have a lot of fun, though. The band is loud with heavy bass and distorted electric guitar and thundering drums. Not really what he’s usually into but it’s easy to get swept up in the excitement of it.

After Elliott’s band finishes, Blaine means to tell him how great they were and be on his way, but they all come off stage and Elliott introduces him as, “My friend, Blaine,” with his huge arm across Blaine’s shoulder. He stays to watch the next two bands with them. Then they all hang out in the alley outside the venue, next to dumpsters and old wooden crates and something sticky on the ground. It’s so wonderful to be back in a place infused with creative, vibrant energy, with people who are interested in his art and his views.

Kurt is asleep by the time he gets home, turned onto his stomach and breathing steadily. Blaine showers, scrubs off the stench of cigarettes and weed and whatever was in that alleyway. Comes to bed and kisses Kurt’s head. Kurt doesn’t stir.

He wakes to Kurt pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Hey,” Blaine says, stretching and blinking his eyes open.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” Kurt comes into focus, kneeling on the edge of the bed with his hair swept up and diner uniform on.

“Are you leaving?” Blaine grabs for his phone. He didn’t mean to sleep so late, must have hit snooze on his alarm without even realizing it. “You should have woken me up.”

Kurt smiles. “I thought about it, but you looked so peaceful.” He tips his head and makes a face. “And you were drooling so…”

“I was not.” Blaine tugs him back down for another kiss. And another. And—

“Mmm, don’t tempt me. I’m dragging my feet as it is.” He stands and smooths out his uniform. “I’ll see you around four?”

“I’m giving piano lessons from two-thirty to seven,” Blaine reminds him.

“Oh,” Kurt says. “Dinner then? I’ll cook.”

Blaine stretches out in the bed, smiles up at his husband and replies, “Sounds perfect.”

He’s way over on the Upper West Side–with a six year old named Matilda who has straw colored hair and a pretty young mother who always bakes Blaine muffins, and a father who always seems to be out of town–running through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in D major, again, when Blaine’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

“No devices during lessons,” Matilda precociously reminds him.

“Yes, I know.” It’s Kurt. He lets it go to voicemail. “Play it one more time, okay?” She’s got it, but this way he can text Kurt while she’s focused on the song.

Blaine: Sorry. Got reprimanded by a six year old for getting phone calls at work. What’s up?

Kurt: A few people called out and they want me to stay for another shift.

Kurt: But I think I’m gonna say no. I’m looking forward to our dinner.

Blaine: If they’re in a bind it’s ok. We could probably use the money anyway.

Kurt: Oh. Ok I’ll be home as soon as I can. Could you cook then?

Blaine: Of course :)

Kurt: And I’d prefer you in some state of undress. As long as I’m making requests.

Blaine: ;)

“Mr. Anderson,” Matilda scolds. “No texting.”

“Sorry,” Blaine says, cheeks flushed and warm under his collar. From embarrassment or from Kurt, it’s difficult to say.

At home he whips up a quick chicken curry with vegetables and pours some wine. Then cleans the apartment a bit, does some homework. Finally he can’t take it, he’s starving and it smells so delicious. He takes just a few bites from the pot, mouth stuffed full when Kurt calls.

“Mmph.”

“Blaine?” Dishes clatter and someone calls out an order, drowning out whatever Kurt says after that.

Blaine quickly chews and swallows. “Kurt?”

“Hi!” Kurt says louder. “Oh my god we are swamped and I cannot get the hell out of here.”

He must be exhausted by now. “That’s awful, I’m sorry,” Blaine feels terrible that he was eating without him when Kurt is probably dead on his feet and has likely eaten nothing but filched fries and too much free soda.

“No, honey. I’m sorry. I totally stood you up for dinner and I have no idea when I’ll make it. And what sort of mood I’ll be in when I finally do.”

“It’s okay,” Blaine says. It sucks, but he’s not mad. It’s not Kurt’s fault.

Kurt breathes out a sigh. “Listen, don’t wait for me. We don’t both need to suffer. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“If you’re sure…” Blaine looks at the food still in the pot. His stomach grumbles.

“I’m sure. I love you.”

After he eats and puts the leftovers on a plate covered with foil for Kurt, Gary calls and invites Blaine to see his band perform. Blaine hesitates, then looks around the quiet apartment. He doesn’t see any reason not to.

Elliott is there too, and once again they stay through all the acts, then mill around after, this time on the metal stairs outside. Blaine’s ears ring and the music is still rattling his bones and it was not really to his tastes at all, but all around him is life and art and enthusiasm and he loves it.

When he gets home he finds Kurt passed out on the couch, still in his uniform, his hair limp, food stains splotched on his shirt and pants and cheek.

“Come on, up. There we go.” He gets Kurt up, drapes Kurt’s arm over his shoulders and holds him by the waist to help him shuffle to the bedroom.

Kurt snuffles, nuzzles into Blaine’s neck and mumbles, “Gonna sleep forever.”

Blaine laughs, slides him onto the bed and tugs his shoes off. “Okay, sleeping beauty.” He undoes the buttons on Kurt’s uniform shirt, the button and fly on the pants and manages to get them off with very little help from Kurt. Blaine watches him for a moment, fast asleep, a swell of love and adoration rising in Blaine’s chest. He kisses Kurt’s slack mouth and heads off to the bathroom.

Kurt is really going to regret not doing his face regime in the morning.

They’d made plans to go to the Greenmarket, shop local fruits and vegetables and other farm fresh goods, have lunch, maybe watch some cooking demonstrations. But Kurt is still zonked out when Blaine gets up, still out after he’s showered and shaved and gotten dressed. He makes waffles and coffee and reads Variety and still Kurt sleeps.

Blaine decides the Greenmarket can wait until next weekend, but grocery shopping most definitely cannot. He decides to go by himself, instead of waking Kurt.

He’s putting away the frozen items he bought when Kurt comes up behind him and wraps both arms around his waist.

“He lives,” Blaine jokes.

“Mmm, barely.” Kurt dots kisses along his shoulder and the back of his neck. “Work was a nightmare. I think I’ve paid my karmic debt for snapping at waitstaff a thousandfold by now.”

Kurt’s mouth lingers on Blaine’s skin, arms still tight around his torso. Blaine shivers and quickly puts the rest of the frozen food away. And then—Can’t really move. “Kurt,” he laughs. Kurt hums and lifts his mouth to the lobe of Blaine’s ear. “I—oh…kay.”

The rest of the food sits unpacked on the counter, including the stuff that needs to go in the fridge: Milk and cheese and meat. Kurt doesn’t seem care, just continues nibbling and kissing along Blaine’s neck and ear and jaw.

It twists hot in his belly, pulls tight between his legs, but really. “I need to get these few things away.”

Kurt huffs. “Fine.” And stands back a bit.

Only when Blaine bends to put carrots and peppers in the crisper, Kurt grabs his ass so roughly that Blaine yelps and nearly whacks his head on the refrigerator door.

“What has gotten into you?” Blaine shuts the door, sets his hands on his hips.

Kurt’s cheeks are red and his eyes are dark. He shrugs. “I’ve missed you. It’s been forever.”

He puts the last of the food away in the cabinet, shaking his head and grinning. “Like, four days, Kurt.”

Kurt leans against the counter with his arms crossed tight on his chest. “At least a week.”

Blaine opens his mouth to argue, realizes Kurt is right, it has been more like a week or so, and walks over to him, moving into his space until Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders. “Okay, a week. Not quite forever.”

Kurt scrunches his nose and says, “I’m being silly,” rolls his eyes and laughs at himself.

“You’re not,” Blaine says. He looks up and tilts his head, purses his lips and—Kurt is looking resolutely away, biting at his bottom lip. “Something’s bothering you,” Blaine says.

“It’s stupid,” Kurt says. His arms slip down and he starts to step away, but Blaine catches his wrists, then slides his palms down to interlace their fingers.

“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.” He pulls Kurt’s hands up and starts to kiss each knuckle, watching Kurt with wide, sad eyes.

“Oh my god, okay.” He tugs Blaine to the bedroom, sits on the bed and has Blaine sit on the bed. “I’m happy that you love school and you’ve made friends and found work and new interests. I don’t even mind that you stole Elliott from me.”

Blaine must wince at that because Kurt pats his knee. “I’m kidding. Well, mostly.”

“Okay,” Blaine says. “But…”

Kurt takes a breath. “But. You aren’t—Staying busy and telling me it’s fine to work more and doing stuff by yourself because you think that I—That I’m going to feel smothered and freak out on you again?”

“Kurt, no.” He says immediately, and just as quickly he wonders if he has been doing exactly that.

Kurt nods. “You have. I mean maybe not consciously.”

Blaine furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Maybe a little?”

Kurt’s jaw works and he starts to blink too fast, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. “I don’t want to make the same mistakes,” he breathes out. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t, hey. We aren’t making the same mistakes.” Blaine moves in to hug him, Kurt’s arms sweeping up and down his shoulder blades as they breathe and hold each other. “We’re here, talking about it. Trying.” Kurt nods against cheek. “A work in progress, right?”

“Right.” Kurt pulls away and wipes at his eyes and smiles, small and wobbly but a smile.

“I’m happy,” Blaine continues. “I love our life. But I also love my life and that’s important, too. And hey, look at you. Being all emotionally available.” Blaine tosses him a coy look. “It’s so sexy.”

Kurt laughs and shoves at Blaine’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” Blaine gets up to his knees and nudges Kurt back onto the bed, crawls over him and leans down to kiss him, hard and open and with no mistaking the intent behind it.

Kurt responds with the enthusiasm Blaine was hoping for, his hands everywhere on Blaine’s body, his hips churning and his kisses desperate. Blaine moves to mouth along his neck and Kurt gasps and writhes.

“I—” He swallows hard, the slide of it moving against Blaine’s tongue. “I’m really proud—” He gasps. “Of us. Of you. We’re really doing it this—oh god.”

Blaine lifts his head. “Yeah?”

Kurt’s eyes never leave his lips but he replies, “Yeah. I am happy you’re doing so well on your own. When I don’t selfishly want you all to myself, that is.”

It winds warmly around his heart: Kurt’s pride and his love and how hard he’s trying. How hard both of them are trying. He could deal with giving up the improv group and ultimate Frisbee for some extra date nights. Blaine moves down, settles his body along Kurt’s and cups his cheek. “Well you are in luck because I, Kurt Hummel, am all yours.”

Kurt closes his eyes, sniffles and reaches up to put his hand over Blaine’s, his wedding ring clacking against Blaine’s wedding ring. It’s a quiet, necessary moment, a space carved out of their busy lives, separate but not, not really. Kurt opens his eyes and says, “And I’m yours. Wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, okay?” Blaine nods and kisses him and god he loves this man.

Kurt looks up at him and grins, eyes crinkled and cheeks dimpling. “Now take all of your clothes off immediately.”


	2. Anywhere I Go (You Go)

They’ve shifted to their sides in the center of the bed, curled their bodies and their fingers, Blaine’s toes pressed into Kurt’s ankles and Kurt’s knees framed by Blaine’s. It’s Sunday, Kurt is off work and their errands are done and they’ve had a mature, calm, adult discussion about their relationship and boundaries and being aware of, but not ruled by, their past mistakes. So now they’re making out.

They could go somewhere and do something, in this city with endless options for things to do and places to go. But instead they kiss and kiss and sigh against skin and trail fingers and shift legs, closer and closer and more and more for so long that the bloated gray clouds outside make their move first.

Kurt’s lips tingle and his jaw twinges, just a bit, when he opens his mouth wider, wide enough to let Blaine’s tongue back in, leans up, tilts his head and slides fingertips in the short hair above Blaine’s ears. Raindrops ping on the metal fire escape, streak down the window and patter on the roof. Blaine’s hair is looser, softer, curling in tendrils around Kurt’s fingers.

“I like this,” he says, sinking his hand higher and deeper and twisting a handful of hair to indicate what he means.

Blaine’s eyes roll back, his hips shift up and down on Kurt’s belly. “Oh?”

“Mmm,” Kurt says, and tugs at his hair by way of answer. He fits his lips to Blaine’s again, aims for dirty and rough and pulls away only when Blaine responds with a deep rumbling groan that means he’s achieved it. “Will you? Your mouth?”

Blaine’s lips are wet and red, his eyes blinking slowly, fingers digging into Kurt’s hip. He pushes, encouraging Kurt onto his back where Kurt knows Blaine will crawl between his legs and kiss down his belly and hips and thighs, tease and lick at his balls before finally wrapping his lips around Kurt’s aching cock. Kurt loves it. But not today.

“Can you…” God knows in the heat of the moment he’s said things so debauched he still sometimes blushes just thinking about them, and he’s confident enough now to voice his wants and likes and dislikes. But it still feels silly and makes him look away, to Blaine’s chin or jaw or not even looking at him at all. “Maybe on your knees? While I sit?”

When they were younger, Blaine was enthusiastic and effusive whenever Kurt asked for something specific. Of course. Anything, Kurt. I’d love that. I love you. Now the sentiment is still there, only it’s a smile and a knowing look. Sometimes it’s even a chuckle and a wry, bossy today. And sometimes it’s a no.

Maybe it’s marriage or maybe it’s all the effort put into communicating or maybe it’s both, but today Blaine raises his eyebrows, lifts his head and shoulders from the bed and asks, “Got a plan?”

If marriage has made Blaine more self-assured, then it can make Kurt speak his desires and love with the same bluntness he usually reserves for hurt and frustration and poor fashion choices. Kurt sits, pulls off his shirt and underwear, sits back propped on his hands and spreads his legs wide.

“I want you to suck my cock, and I want to hold your head while you do it.”

The enthusiasm of new-to-sex Blaine returns with abandon: Blaine scrambles off the bed and lands on the floor between Kurt’s legs so hard that his knees crack. “Jesus, Kurt.”

Kurt has been lazily half-hard for a while, of course he has, with Blaine’s plush lips and silky tongue and tight body all Kurt’s, all morning. It only takes looking down at Blaine’s dark head resting on the join of his bare hip and bare thigh, his face lax with pleasure and his breath fanning across Kurt’s skin to get Kurt all the way there. He sinks one hand then the other into Blaine’s hair, licks across his own bottom lip, watches his cock stiffen and stand and pull tight over the head.

The rain picks up outside, lightning flashes across the dreary sky and their darkened bedroom, there’s a rattle of thunder. Blaine’s hair seems to get less contained by the minute, frizz rising around the crown of his head and curls appearing at his temples and the nape of his neck. Kurt touches all of it: fluffy and spiraled and clumped and the places where it’s still flat and combed down.

Blaine drags his lips up the underside of Kurt’s cock, holds the base and drags back down. Licks broad along the shaft, short and pointed flicks of his tongue in the slit, a wicked slow drag of it along the ridge. Kurt watches and tugs at Blaine hair, whimpers and pants harsh breaths and if Blaine notices Kurt’s newfound kink for manhandling his hair, he doesn’t say.

By the time he opens his mouth around Kurt’s cock, tightens his lips and sinks down until it meets the resistance of his throat Kurt is so wound up he yelps, yanks on the handfuls of hair and has to consciously shove down the urgent wave of heat ready to bubble over.

He uses his grip on Blaine’s hair to move him back up, just suckling the tip, gets himself under control, and gently pushes against the back of Blaine’s head. Buried again in the wet heat of Blaine’s mouth, Kurt pauses to check in. Blaine’s eyes are closed, his nose is flared and his lips a wet, tight O. He swallows and moans and Kurt can feel it squeezing and vibrating on his cock in turns. Blaine has one hand still holding the base of Kurt’s cock steady, and one hand shoved into his briefs, frantically jerking himself off.

That’s enough for Kurt, he sets his teeth on his bottom lip, pushes and pulls and pushes Blaine’s head, twists and tugs his hair, watches his cock slide shining and red and so so hard, swallowed down over and over.

There’s a crack of thunder so loud that it startles Kurt out of a trance made of nothing but Blaine’s lips and tongue and throat. He jumps. His cock drives deep, past Blaine’s limits, his throat spasming and fluttering. Kurt keens, has a lingering filament of awareness left just long enough to pull back and push Blaine’s head away so he doesn’t choke. Kurt comes, spurting and shooting across Blaine’s lips and chin, then his neck and chest, then finally one last gush dribbles down his own cock as he slumps down onto his elbows with a shudder.

Blaine is—Kind of a mess. His cheek squashed into Kurt’s knee, hair in clumps and tufts and errant curls, lips a raw roughened red, come-streaked face contorted with the strain of driving himself toward orgasm.

“You look incredible,” Kurt breathes. Blaine whines. “So good. You’re so good to me, baby.”

Blaine turns his head, mouths Kurt’s leg like he needs whatever part of Kurt he can get to on his lips and tongue. Kurt slides down, wobbly and still humming with pleasure, holds Blaine’s face in his hands and gives Blaine his own mouth instead. Blaine groans, kisses him without any finesse or grace at all, hand flying, grabs Kurt’s head to slam their mouths together and comes.

“Damn,” Blaine says against Kurt’s shoulder.

“Damn right,” Kurt says.

Kurt had been hoping that after that wonderful experience Blaine would keep his hair free, or somewhat free, but he showers and gels it down and comes out of the bathroom scrubbed clean and smiling sunnily. It’s less gel than he usually uses, more like what it looked like when they first met. Kurt thinks he’s handsome always, and he can’t be too disappointed that this hairstyle reminds him of a time when he spent all of his waking hours and many of his dreams swooning over Blaine.

A few days later Blaine comes into the diner after not coming by for a while, sits at the counter and orders a turkey burger and no fries please from Anthony, a new hire. Kurt is just finishing up with a ticket behind the counter.

“Check out dapper and delicious in my section,” Anthony says, smirking at Kurt and moving in to enter Blaine’s order. “I forgot to write his name down so I’ll just put: Yum.”

Blaine is in a simple tight polo with a bow tie, snug chinos, and a pageboy cap on his head, his right hand on the counter holding his phone, his left hand in his lap. Kurt bets he’s twirling his wedding ring absentmindedly while he waits.

“Dibs,” Kurt says.

“What? No fair!” Anthony calls as Kurt swans away.

“Hi there,” he purrs, tugging on the brim of Blaine cap. “You look cute.”

Blaine beams and shakes his head. “Thank you. The hat was a last minute necessity so I’m glad it doesn’t look terrible.” Kurt gives him a questioning look. “It’s so humid out,” Blaine says, gesturing to his hair. “Frizz city.”

Kurt catches one of his tables trying to get his attention so he just says, “Gotcha.” And then because Anthony is still watching them and Kurt maybe sometimes enjoys showing off a bit, adds, “There’s fresh baked cherry pie in the back if you want.”

Blaine’s eyes widen. “Ooh okay.”

“There is a special fee, however.” He leans over the counter and taps his cheek. “One kiss.”

Blaine laughs. “Gladly.” He presses a quick, soft peck to Kurt’s cheek.

When Kurt passes Anthony again with a tray full of desserts for table twelve Anthony says, “Okay, okay, your husband is cute,” with a roll of his eyes. “Very funny, by the way.”

Kurt gets to smirk this time, and tosses a quick wink to Blaine over his shoulder.

After Kurt gets off work they go to one of the many student film festivals at Artie’s school, stop for decaf coffee after and get home late enough that they head right to bed. Blaine rests his head on Kurt’s chest in the dark, and Kurt twirls and winds and twists a curl springing up from Blaine’s temple. He’s so still that Kurt assumes he’s been lulled to sleep by it, until Blaine suddenly surges up and fits their mouths together, shoves both of their pajama bottoms down and ruts against him until they both come.

“Not it,” Kurt says after, grinning widely.

Blaine kisses the hollow of Kurt’s throat and hops off the bed to get a towel.

They don’t get a chance to do potluck dinners with the gang as often as they did at first, they’re all busier now with school and internships and work and auditions and long-term projects. Maybe once a month they manage to get a large group together. Rarely is everyone in town these days.

This week they’re at Santana and Brittany’s with Artie and his most recent on-again-off-again girlfriend, Zara—a fellow film student who dresses a lot like Tina did back in her goth phase—Rachel, Elliott and his boyfriend, and Jesse, who seems to be around all the time lately.

“We’re just having fun,” Rachel says, setting down the salad she brought. Kurt places the cheesecake they picked up on the way—He had fifteen minutes to spare with Blaine before coming over and Kurt most certainly wasn’t going to spend it cooking or dressed. He glances over to Jesse, who only has eyes for Rachel, and nothing in that look says, “just fun” to Kurt. He leaves it alone for now.

Blaine is talking to Cole, Elliott’s boyfriend, who is attending a group dinner for the very first time. He’s a musician and artist with full sleeve tattoos on both arms, rings through his bottom lip, nose, and eyebrow, and an impressive bushy beard.

“One whole month,” Kurt says, handing Elliott a cider and taking a sip of his own.

“Well,” Elliott says with a shrug. “Maybe I’ve been hanging out with you two for so long that I’ve gotten crazy ideas about love and commitment.” He takes a long drink from the bottle. “Plus he’s like, super hot.”

Kurt taps their bottles together at that, then Brittany rings the cowbell she insists on using to announce dinner. They’re all just sitting down, several conversations twisting and interrupting and flowing together, when Blaine’s phone rings.

His eyebrows pull flat and he frowns before answering it. “Sorry, excuse me for a sec,” he says. And then as he goes into another room, “Dad?”

He isn’t gone for long but Kurt worries because Blaine had looked worried, and a thousand scenarios flash anxiously through his mind until Blaine comes back to the table.

“Everything okay?”

Blaine takes the offered dish of potatoes au gratin from Zara. “Thank you,” he tells her, and to Kurt, “My dad is coming to town on business. He wants to have dinner. With…Us.”

“Us?” Kurt repeats. Kurt’s relationship with Blaine’s father is—Tenuous. Politely distant. That is, on the rare occasion Kurt sees him.

Kurt is still processing this when Santana says loudly, “So Daddy Warbucks is coming to town?”

Kurt glares at her and Blaine replies, “I hate when you call him that.”

“I know, that’s why I do it.” She looks to Brittany. “Does he really not get how this works?” Britt shrugs.

“Wait, what’s the deal?” Cole asks. Elliott gives a slight shake of his head. “Sorry, touchy subject?”

“It’s fine,” Blaine says. He moodily moves potatoes around on his plate.

Kurt opens his mouth to make a quip about family drama: can’t live with ‘em, can’t legally disown them. But Santana doesn’t let up.

“The deal is that the stag who sired Bambi over there comes into town once in a blue moon, drops a big fat check on him to make his casual neglect seem a-okay, and we all pretend he’s a super swell guy.”

“Santana,” Kurt warns.

“What? I mean it in a good way. I’m totally jealous. I wish my dad was emotionally distant and tried to buy my love.” She twirls her fork in the air before stabbing a piece of steak. “I could use the cash.”

Blaine drops his fork, mutters, “Excuse me,” and walks briskly to the bathroom.

The table is silent except for the scraping of forks and tinkle of ice cubes against glass. After a few minutes Artie’s girlfriend says something about it getting late, even though it isn’t at all, and Elliott makes an excuse to take off, too. “Tell him to call me, if he feels like it.”

Kurt thanks him, stands to go fetch Blaine, but Santana stops him. “I got it.”

It’s just him and Brittany and Rachel and Jesse after that. Rachel keeps looking in concern at the bathroom door like Santana might be waterboarding him as they sit there.

Brittany slices the cheesecake and slides plates to everyone. “Blaine is her favorite, you know.”

“Lucky him,” Kurt says drolly.

“My dad is a jerk, too,” Jesse offers. Rachel takes his hand.

“That’s the thing,” Kurt says, taking a bite and chewing slowly. “He’s not a jerk. He’s just…” He takes another bite, unsure how to explain it.

“In another dimension,” Brittany supplies with a knowing nod of her head. And yeah, actually, that’s kind of true.

The evening of the dinner Blaine spends even longer than usual getting ready, nervously tugging at his cuffs when he turns to Kurt for final approval. He’s dressed in one of his nicest button downs, dress slacks, a heavy wool blazer, and a tie pulled snug on his throat. Every thing is perfectly pressed and neatly placed. His hair flat and gelled and severely parted. 

“How do I look?” He asks nervously, and just like that, things snap together in Kurt’s mind.

“Like I should drag you to bed and have my wicked way with you,” Kurt says, complete with a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows.

Blaine laughs. “That would go over well, I’m sure. Hey dad, sorry we’re late. We were too busy banging.”

“Banging, huh?” Kurt says, tugging the end of Blaine’s tie.

Blaine smiles. “Making love?”

Kurt lifts his shoulders, smooths down the fabric on the lapel of Blaine’s blazer. “Either or.”

Blaine is still nervous, Kurt can tell, still consciously or unconsciously trying to win the approval of someone who may never give it to him. At least not the unconditional open approval that Kurt has been lucky enough to get from his own father.

Dinner is fine. Pleasant, even. Like a business meeting, or catching up with an old acquaintance. Blaine’s father is polite and charming and handsome in all the same ways that Blaine is, but without Blaine’s generous kind heart and sweet, boyish disposition it comes across a little sharper, a little less honest. He does, in fact, insist on giving them a big, fat check.

Blaine is tense until they close their apartment door behind them, and then he sinks into Kurt’s body, presses the tip of his nose into Kurt’s neck and sighs heavily. Kurt rubs his back and asks, “Do you want to take a bath?”

Their tub is small and cramped and they have to sit in it with their legs bent awkwardly out of the water but Blaine mumbles into Kurt’s skin, “That sounds amazing.”

Kurt touches the back of his neck, the stiff strands of hair. “Can I wash your hair?”

Blaine tenses for a second, relaxes again and nods.

The bath is peaceful and quiet, lit by candles and smelling like lavender. Kurt sits behind Blaine, washes his hair and kisses his wet shoulders and says, “I love you,” because he’s not sure what else to say.

“I love you, too,” Blaine sighs. He sinks deeper into the water, drops his head back onto Kurt’s chest. “If you don’t want to see Mr. Broccoli Head soon you should put some product in my hair.”

“I love Mr. Broccoli Head, too,” Kurt says, and kisses the top of his damp hair. It is starting to puff up in frizzy little tufts.

“Well, you’re the only one,” Blaine replies. He hesitates and then, “I just—Don’t feel right, without—”

“Hey, I get it,” Kurt says. He runs his hand through Blaine’s hair because he can right now, spattering drops of water all over Blaine’s golden skin. “I like you any which way, just for the record.”

“Oh, I know,” Blaine says, deep in his chest in a way that makes Kurt’s belly tighten. “I’ll leave it loose for you. Just for now.”

Kurt sinks his fingers deep, tugs on some strands and leans down to nibble on Blaine’s ear. “Yay,” he says.

Kurt tugs on Blaine’s hair and pulls on his cock and sucks on his ear, it’s slippery and slow and they make a mess, water splashed on the tile and a bottle of shampoo kicked to the floor. It’s not perfect, but then neither are they. Kurt likes to think that they’ve both developed an appreciation for all the ways that they’re imperfect together. Frizzy hair and everything.


	3. Keeping The Stars

Sam has a three day weekend that they do not, so Blaine proposes the idea while Kurt is washing dishes after dinner and he’s at the table halfway attempting to transpose a line of music according to the twelve-tone theory.

“This weekend?” Kurt doesn’t turn, just glances over his shoulder with his sleeves rolled up. He’s dumped all the dishes in the sink and is washing them in the murky water, then just a perfunctory rinse before plopping them in the drying rack. It’s sort of making Blaine crazy.

“Yeah, this weekend. Optional teacher workday, Sam said.”

Kurt hmms and goes back to scrubbing a bowl. “Yeah okay.” Rinses and sets it in the rack. “But you have so much homework lately, make sure you don’t fall behind while he’s here.”

Ugh, he can see little bits of food floating in the water from here. “I know,” Blaine says. It comes out with more bite than he intended it to.

At that Kurt turns at the waist and lifts an eyebrow.

Blaine drops his pencil with a sigh, stands and comes behind Kurt with a kiss to his shoulder. “Sorry. I’m just—Well aware of how much work I’ve had lately.”

Kurt smiles. “Okay.”

Blaine leans up and kisses his cheek. “Okay.” And on the tip of his tongue is, are you going to drain that disgusting water? But he remembers that it’s important not to sweat the small stuff and the dishes being washed with unsanitary water probably won’t give them both e coli. It’s fine. It’s so, so fine.

If only he wasn’t so distracted by it that he finds it impossible to focus on inversions and pitch class even after Kurt is finished and moves to the couch to read a magazine, leaving the dishes dripping on the counter. Pick your battles, pick your battles, pick your battles.

Sam arrives Friday afternoon when Kurt is working and Blaine is finally starting his paper, just bursts through the door and drops his bag with his arms open wide. “I’m back in the Big Apple, baby!”

Blaine ditches his paper and lets Sam yank him into a too-tight hug. They catch up briefly—How’s work? Fine. How’s school? Eh—then play video games and eat dry cereal right from the box while an 80’s mix Sam has on his phone pumps in the background.

They’re deep into being survivors in a dystopian city where they have to fight off zombies to survive when Blaine hears the door open.

“Hey Kurt,” Sam says, then, “Dude, cover me I’m going in.”

Blaine considers their options. “No way, I’ll die! Just stay put.”

“Do it!” Sam moves his character out of their hiding spot behind an abandoned car and into a horde of pixelated undead before Blaine can stop him.

“Dammit, Sam,” Blaine hisses. He moves his character out and—“They ate our brains, good job.”

Sam tosses his controller down and spreads his arms wide, smacking Blaine in the chest. “I told you to cover me!”

“You didn’t give me a chance!” Blaine shoves his arm away.

Sam scoffs, “Jerk.”

“Idiot,” Blaine retorts. And then Sam grins and tackles Blaine to the ground. They grapple and squawk and yell. Blaine gets pinned in a headlock and tries to fight off Sam’s attempts to mess up his hair by elbowing Sam in the ribs, struggling and out of breath. Kurt’s boots click across the floor, stopping in front of them.

“Would you boys like a post-wrestling meal?”

“Yes, please,” they both say.

Blaine stands, smooths his hair down and fixes his twisted shirt. Sam hops up, gives him one last shove before heading into the kitchen and says, “I’ve missed you, dude.”

Saturday morning Blaine has to give piano lessons for a few hours and then really should work on that paper, so he tells Sam he’ll have to entertain himself for a while.

“It’s cool, I’m gonna hang with Artie and then go see Rachel.” He eats half a buckwheat pancake in one bite.

“Oh. You should know that she and Jesse are…A thing,” Blaine warns him. He cuts his own pancakes into sensible bites.

“No big,” Sam says, mouth full. He chews and swallows and downs his orange juice. “I’ve got a girlfriend. Didn’t I tell you?”

Blaine pours syrup over his neat little pancake squares. “Um. Oh yeah, the girl from the grocery store?”

Sam looks puzzled. “Who?”

“Kelli? Tiffani?” Blaine racks his brain. “Something with an i.”

“Oh, Brandi! No, no that’s long over. This is the new dance teacher, Angelique.” His eyes go a little glassy and Blaine wants to maybe warn him about dating a coworker, again, but Kurt finally emerges from bed, rumpled and yawning and heading straight to the coffee pot.

“Good morning,” Blaine says. Kurt says something garbled over the top of his mug that’s most likely morning.

When Kurt sits at the small table that barely fits in the space between the tiny kitchen and the cramped dining room, Sam scoots over, slings his arm over Blaine’s shoulders and fills him on Angelique, the dancer.

Kurt sips his coffee and watches them huddled there together with something unreadable settled on his face.

He and Sam leave while Kurt is in the shower, heading off on opposite subway lines. The day is absolutely beautiful: Sunny and mild with a gentle breeze. The clouds are huge and puffy, and little pink petals sprinkle down from the blossoming trees in the charming, upscale neighborhoods where he gives in-home piano lessons. The perfect spring day, which is probably why none of the kids can focus.

By the time he’s on his last lesson with Matilda he’s tense and impatient, snapping at her when she totally bungles a chord progression that is well within her abilities.

“What was that?” he says, stopping the tick tick tick of the metronome on top of the piano.

Her hair is in two braids tied with blue ribbons, and she’s wearing a crinkled white linen sundress; adorable and breezy and bright. She pokes at a black key. D-flat. “It’s boring.”

“Well sometimes you have to do boring things,” Blaine replies, releasing the metronome. “Welcome to real life.” Things like writing papers analyzing Grey Gardens and its commentary on the fleeting nature of beauty or writing up a mock budget for a play or endless amounts of transposing lines of music. Or giving piano lessons when you’d rather be hanging out with your best friend.

Matilda’s shoulders slump and she pouts. Blaine’s stomach feels heavy. It’s not like it’s her fault.

“Hey,” he says, and plays a few notes. “Why don’t we do Five Little Speckled Frogs instead?”

She grins and sits up, and Blaine pulls out the little felt board and cloth bag of felt frogs and a log to stick them on while she plays, singing the song and making a frog “jump” into the blue felt water with his very best frog-like croak croak every time she finishes a round. She giggles through the whole thing.

But any relief at finishing the lesson without further incident quickly disappears on his commute back home. The train is so crowded that he barely manages to wedge himself into the door, and of course someone nearby reeks. A man with a bucket for a drum gets on the train and starts wailing away. By the time he’s walking back to the apartment the bright sun is harsh in his eyes and the breeze is sharp on his skin and his neck and back are tight and sore from the stress of the day. The stress of the week.

When he gets in the house he can hear Kurt’s sewing machine whirring and clicking and thudding away. He dumps his bag, takes off his shoes, and rubs at his temples. Kurt’s school year is winding down with in-class demonstrations and fun impromptu performances and a costuming project that he’s having a blast with.

Blaine gets a bottle of juice from the fridge, and when he closes it, it’s with a slam.

“Oh. Hey, honey. I didn’t see you come in.” The machine is set up on the corner desk in the living room, Kurt has an explosion of fabric and thread and scissors and pins and fasteners strewn around him. “I think I’m going blind from staring at tiny lines of stitching for so long.” He stretches his back and grunts and winces.

Blaine snaps the bottle open. “Right.” Kurt’s eyes narrow, then he shrugs and goes back to his sewing. Blaine thumps his juice on the kitchen counter. “Can’t you do that somewhere else?”

“No?” Kurt says slowly. “I have projects to finish.”

“So do I, and mine aren’t loud and messy and are actually difficult, so…” Blaine walks into the living room and impatiently sets his hands on his hips. It’s like Kurt’s trying to rub it in his face that his work is so much easier since he’s so far ahead of Blaine in school.

Kurt sets down the garment he had been working on and turns in the chair to face him. “Okay, what is your deal right now?”

“My deal is that I’d like to get this damn work done so I can enjoy myself for once while Sam is here,” Blaine retorts.

“Oh I see.” Kurt stands, angrily picks up the materials for his project and shoves them into bags and boxes and containers. “I’m sorry that spending time with me is such a terrible burden for you.”

Kurt stomps off, and Blaine deflates, calling out, “Kurt wait! I didn’t mean—” But the bedroom door slams closed. “Can we talk about this?” Silence.

Great. Just perfect.

Blaine opens his laptop to work on his paper, but of course he can’t focus. It’s like the urge to start a fight was itching under his skin, like he needed Kurt to notice how stressed out he is and hold him and stroke his hair and let Blaine get out all his worries and concerns without ever giving Kurt a chance to do so. Like he was already angry at Kurt for something he hadn’t yet done, and the only way to get him there was to poke and prod and piss him off.

It’s an old habit, and a dumb one, and Blaine hates that he went back there.

“Hey man, I’m not even here, just stopped by to change.” Sam bustles in, heading to his duffle bag in a corner. “Keep working, you’re doing great.”

Blaine looks at his paper, at the same words that have been mocking him for days now. “What are you up to?”

“Oh, there’s a game I wanted to catch but nobody wants to see it with me.” He pulls out a white and red jersey and slips it on over his T-shirt. “I’m gonna hit a sports bar instead.”

Blaine closes his laptop. “I’ll watch with you.”

They stay at the apartment after Sam decides their TV is suitably wide enough. The game stretches on through to dinner time, so they order a pizza, and the door to the bedroom stays closed and silent until the delivery person buzzes from downstairs.

Sam pays, comes back to the couch and says, “Woah, Kurt. I didn’t even know you were here.”

Kurt gives a tightlipped smile and takes a slice. He’s cool and polite to Sam for the rest of the game, doesn’t really acknowledge Blaine at all really, just sits in the converted car seat chair with his legs crossed tightly and his right foot bouncing.

Luckily the game is exciting enough that Sam doesn’t notice and Blaine can use it as a welcome, relazing distraction; cheering and high-fiving Sam, jumping up and clinging to him when things are really going well. And when Sam’s team wins he tackles Blaine down onto the couch in a celebratory crushing hug.

Kurt watches them and not the game, and continues to say nothing.

“All right, I’m gonna make like a baby and head out,” Sam announces, after he releases Blaine and shuts the TV off.

“So soon?” Kurt says. It’s sarcastic, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah I have some new plays to bang out.” He winks exaggeratedly. “And a certain dance teacher if you get what I’m saying.” He considers for a moment, thinking. “Sex, I mean. I’m talking about sex. With her. The dance teacher.”

“We got it, Sam,” Blaine says, laughing. He bumps their shoulders together and pats Sam’s belly. “Thanks for stopping by, I guess.”

Sam pulls him into another hug. “Aw, don’t worry.” He deepens his voice into an impression of The Terminator. “I’ll be back.”

And then he’s gone and it’s just him and Kurt and a heavy, terse quiet. The creak of floorboards when Kurt walks to the couch. The squeak of the springs as he sits. The tick of the kitchen clock, the traffic noises outside, and Blaine’s heart beating loud in his ears.

He takes a breath. “Okay, I know you’re angry–”

“I’m not,” Kurt says easily. He’s slumped forward, arms resting on his thighs and head sagging. Blaine moves to him, sits gingerly. “Not anymore.” He says it to his knees.

“Well, I’m sorry anyway. I took stuff out on you that didn’t really have anything to do with you.” He drops against the arm rest, rubbing the heel of his hands against his eyes. “I thought I was handling things okay, and then I just—Started to feel like I couldn’t catch up again.”

“It’s not a race,” Kurt says, looking up.

Blaine shakes his head and hates that he feels this way sometimes, still. “That’s easy to say when you aren’t the one who’s losing.”

Kurt face is drawn and sad. “I wish I was better at this—I wish I was more like Sam.”

“Good at impressions?” Blaine says, to lighten the mood a little.

Kurt smiles a fraction, then shakes his head. “No, the—” He gestures in Blaine’s general direction. “Affection and being so easy going and open and it’s like…I could tell. That you were stressed and my instinct is still to withdraw and pull away and—” He shrugs. “I just don’t know how to help sometimes.”

Blaine moves closer to him, touches his elbow gently. He’s learned a lot about helping himself and overcoming feelings of inadequacy and about balance and letting stuff go, then all it takes is a pile of schoolwork and one visit from his father to send it all crashing down around him.

“You do. And anyway, I don’t need you to be all things to me at all times, okay?” Kurt’s body loosens, leaning closer. “And we’re gonna make mistakes and fight and get stressed out, but that’s doesn’t mean that this isn’t working.”

Kurt nods. “I know. I know.” He tangles their fingers together. “Maybe…Maybe next time you need something from me you could spell it out? Make a sign that says: Hey Kurt, please hug me now.”

Blaine chuckles. “Okay.” Waits and beat and adds, quieter, “I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed by me.”

Kurt curls their joined hands against his chest and moves in closer. “You overwhelm me in the best possible ways, Blaine.” He ducks in, slides a soft kiss across Blaine’s lips. “You still take my breath away, you know.”

Blaine rests their foreheads together, closes his eyes and says, “So, I have some ideas for a little stress relief you could help me out with.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes.” Blaine leans in, kisses him and moves to crawl into his lap, but Kurt stops him with his hands gripped to Blaine’s biceps.

“How about, work first. And as reward…” He slides his hands from Blaine’s knees, up his inner thighs and stops just at the bend of his pelvis, brushes his knuckles along the zipper of his pants, and then stands, up and away, with a wink.

Blaine whines, “no come back.”

Kurt grins. “Just think of how motivated you’ll be.” Then he unbuttons his shirt, down to just a tight undershirt and perfectly tailored slacks.

“Like I can concentrate now,” Blaine points out, raking his eyes over Kurt’s body.

Kurt preens, sits at the desk and picks up the costume he’d been working on earlier. “You have three projects, right? So I’m wearing three items of clothing now.” He looks over his shoulder impishly. “You’ve very clever, I’m sure you can figure out how this will go.”

Between that and Kurt’s motivating mix of Broadway songs—among them: Razzle Dazzle, Seize The Day, Superstar, and of course, Defying Gravity—He does manage to get through his work surprisingly fast. Music Composition is certainly a lot more interesting when Kurt is steaming garments next to him wearing only green briefs.

And then, when he’s more than earned his sweet, lithe, beautifully naked reward, Kurt pulls him close, caresses his hair and breathes, “Let’s go out. I have an idea.”


	4. On My Mind

“A church?” Blaine says, with all the confusion and skepticism Kurt had been counting on. “First you get naked and won’t let me touch you, then you go out in public wearing a worn T-shirt and a beanie, and then you take me to a church.” He reaches up, presses the back of his hand to Kurt’s forehead and says with brows furrowed in concern. “Are you feeling okay?”

Kurt bats his hand away. “This shirt is Givenchy, Blaine,” he scoffs, then adjusts the knit hat back into it place, cool yet casually askew. He’s always been a big believer of making adjustments to one’s style when the situation calls for it. When in Rome, and all that.

He takes Blaine’s hand and leads him through the wrought iron gates to the side of the chapel built with red bricks and wide columns, topped with a dome and windows and a white cross. They walk down limestone steps and through hallways and rooms that echo and hum with their footsteps and voices.

“Simon and Garfunkel recorded a song here,” Kurt says, hoping to get Blaine into the spirit of the evening.

“Oh?”

Blaine shuffles along behind him, still looking miffed and confused, so Kurt stops, pulls him to his chest and says, “If I played this wrong and you totally hate it, I’ll do that thing you’ve been asking me to do.”

In the dim hallway, Blaine’s eyes light up and even the flickering prayer candles burning in the sanctuary can’t compete with the fire there. “Yeah, okay,” he says and leans in for a kiss.

Kurt obliges him, pulls away with a grin and adds, “But I’m definitely not wrong.”

Blaine mutters, “Are you ever?” with just a touch of mutiny in his voice, but Kurt lets it go. Blaine can be testy when he’s been denied naked fun time.

“Okay,” Kurt says when they finally make it, down in the basement where it’s cold and dark and tomblike.

“Is this a crypt?” Blaine says with some awe.

They shove open a door and then light and music, laughter and the smell of food and the unmistakable energy of live performance spills out and welcomes them.

“Sort of,” Kurt says. “It’s open mic night.”

It does look like a crypt, more so now that he’s seeing it at night, with the walls and the ceiling and floor solid stone. It’s scarcely bigger than a walk-in closet and the bare yellow bulbs hanging from corners the only light. Or a cave, subterranean dark and chilled in a way that’s only found underground. The stage is even roughly the same size and shape of a coffin.

He’d heard about the place from a girl in his costuming class when he mentioned how he missed getting in front of an audience just for fun and not for a grade or evaluation or to reinstate his place in the pecking order. High in the pecking order. When he decided to pop by and check it out on his way home one afternoon he’d immediately thought, like he has so many times before, that Blaine would love it.

They’ve been busy, and then busier, and it had slipped his mind until Blaine came home with his body tight and tense, his eyes dark with anger, his words clipped. Had lashed out at Kurt and Kurt had walked away and closed himself off, hurt. He’d sat alone in their room and eventually come to realize three things.

One, fighting doesn’t mean their relationship is doomed, but how they fight is important. Two, Blaine feels safe enough with him again to get angry and screw up and not worry that Kurt will leave him because of it. Three, Blaine needs a healthy outlet to blow off some steam before he explodes like the metaphorical pressure cooker with top screwed on too tight. And not just by screwing. Not metaphorically.

They sit a table so small that it’s actually a stool, order drinks and munch on the bowl of popcorn that appears on their table-stool. Everyone in the place is packed in like matchsticks, no room from stretching legs or bending elbows. Kurt leans into Blaine’s side, rests his hand on his thigh and his head on his shoulder. The woman onstage plays a banjo and sings Janis Joplin’s So Sad to be Alone.

It’s beautiful and haunting and as the next performer takes the stage Blaine sets his head on Kurt’s and sighs, “This is wonderful, Kurt.”

Kurt grins, pinches his leg and says, “Told ya.” He really should know better than to doubt Kurt’s zigging by now. Blaine’s head shakes against his and he laughs.

Some of the acts are great and some are a bit rough and some are terrible, but what they all have in common is a rawness and a love of performance and music. It’s not polished, not trained, not looking to succeed at anything but expressing the longing and passion of the heart.

Kurt takes the stage with the house band, his voice vibrating deep in his chest when he takes on a Jeff Buckley song and sings, “When I’m broken down and hungry for your love with no way to feed it.” He watches Blaine and closes his eyes and lets his voice soar high, “So I’ll wait for you…and I’ll burn.” He remembers the way he felt when it he’d thought Blaine was gone for good, when missing Blaine was a constant tugging shadow by his side. When a part of him would have waited for Blaine forever. He finishes the song with the memory of Blaine in his arms again, “Cause it’s not too late.”

The audience applauds, Kurt bows, hops off the stage giddy and light like he always is after performing, tucks back into the corner by their table and finds himself with an armful of eager, effusive Blaine.

“God, Kurt.” He kisses him and kisses him. “It’s like I always forget somehow.” Kisses and holds his face. “You’re amazing.”

Kurt laughs and scoffs and ducks his head. “Careful or I’ll end up with an overinflated ego before we ever hit it big.”

“Never,” Blaine says, eyes intent and serious. He kisses him again, harder this time, hotter. Someone next to them cheers loudly for whoever is now onstage, their shoulder colliding into Kurt’s back. He suddenly remembers how closely situated everyone is and pulls away from Blaine before they cause a scene.

“You should go next,” he says, sipping his drink so his mouth will have something else to do.

“Yeah,” Blaine says, rubs his hands together and bounces nervously his metal chair.

He gets to the stage three acts later, sitting on a high stool with a guitar. “Hi, I’m Blaine,” he squeaks his fingers across the fretboard. Kurt sets his chin on his fist. “Um. I’m new to guitar. Piano is really more my thing, so please forgive my fumbling.” He plays a chord and a some of the conversations around them quiet. “Kurt, this song is for you. I love you more than I can ever say so…”

He smiles at Kurt and starts to play, biting his lip and missing a few chords, wincing and grimacing until he sorts it out. Conversations swell around them, cups clatter on tables and chairs scrape loudly on the stone floor. Until he starts to sing. Everything else dies down and everyone stills, even the waitstaff, and Blaine looks only at Kurt and sings, “Yours is the first face that I saw, I think I was blind before I met you.”

Kurt swells with love and pride. He knows how special Blaine is. He never forgets. It’s still always a delight to watch other people see it for the first time.

After they leave Blaine is exuberant, twirling Kurt on the sidewalk, jumping up onto low walls and tall planters. “I love this city!” he spins on the spot and beams. “Only here would there be this quirky, fun, mellow performance space slash coffee shop slash hipster hangout in a church basement. That was amazing. You’re amazing.” He drops a loud smacking kiss to Kurt’s mouth.

All Kurt can do is follow along his trail of shimmering happiness. He was right about Blaine loving it, right about him needing something like that. But even more, he was right about wanting to experience it with him. To see it through his own eyes and Blaine’s. To share this and so many other moments. That’s why he wanted to get married. That’s why he’ll never regret doing it the way they did. It’s not the wedding, not the fairy tale happy ending that he thought he wanted. It’s the ever after part that means the most.

“Hey, Blaine,” he calls. Blaine slows his stride, catches Kurt’s hand and swings it between them.

“Yes, my darling?”

They head down the stairs of the subway station, swept along in the crush of the hustle and bustle and to and fro, never letting go of each other.

“Let’s do that thing you’ve been asking me to anyway.”


	5. Sound Of A Gentle Word

During the final push of exams and graded performances and showcase evaluations, Blaine had taken to watching late night infomercials as a form of stress relief, and Kurt had lost all willpower in the face of online shopping deals. Add popcorn and alcohol and the filterless haze of two am and no one there to tell them no, and just like that they were the proud owners of a Hurricane 360 mop, Magic Bristle Gloves, a Hostess Mini Cupcake Maker, Sauna Pants, and, for reasons Blaine can no longer quite recall, a Pocket Hose.

He remembers giggling about it, and remembers telling Kurt he was free to use his pocket hose whenever he’d like. And Kurt had thrown a handful of popcorn at him, gasped because he’d suddenly remembered that they were running out of lube, speaking of pocket hoses.

Blaine must have bought it, because that was when Kurt had gone onto a website not all subtly called sextoys.com and ordered The Thing. Giggling and giddy and drunk off a few craft beers and sleep deprivation and Pocket Hose jokes.

“Most of this stuff on here is terrifying but these are actually cute,” Kurt had commented.

So Blaine had glanced over at the we also recommend sidebar and replied, off hand, “So buy one,” and clicked add to cart for the Pocket Hose.

But when it arrived in a discreet brown box with Shipping Department on the label, Kurt had taken it out, wrinkled his nose at the vulgar packaging inside, then at The Thing itself.

“It looks like a torture device,” he’d sniffed, “It’s weird.” He put it back in the brown box, put the brown box on the very highest very thin shelf in their very narrow single closet, his lanky body stretched from toes to fingertips, dusted off his hands and kicked the door closed behind him.

Kurt tends to be…Deliberate with sex. He’s slow to warm up to new things, but when he does, he’s tremendously committed. Kurt Hummel does not merely give head or fuck or put his hands on Blaine where his body aches for it, he excels. He knows what he likes now, knows what Blaine likes, and is exceedingly gifted at giving them both exactly that.

It’s wonderful, of course. Blaine is not even remotely, in the grand endless chasm of the entire universe, complaining. Kurt is gorgeous, and wickedly clever in and out of the bedroom, and Blaine loves him in a tremendous heart-bursting sort of way that he no longer fears at all. But if it were entirely up to Blaine, he wouldn’t mind trying something weird every now again. Just for fun.

So he’d taken The Thing out of the box, out its plastic packaging, flipped the batteries inside the little purple bullet so it softly hummed to life in his palm. Tugged at the stretchy silicone circle, imagined using it on himself, or even better, settled snug on the base of Kurt long, pale, thick cock, just where that blue vein slithers alongside thatched wiry brown hair and soft soft skin. He hadn’t said anything to Kurt, but Kurt had watched, had flicked his eyes down, then scanned Blaine’s face, quietly shrewd, taking a mental note and tucking it away for later.

On the way back from open mic night, when Blaine was filled with bubbling excitement, a champagne bottle corked and shaken and positively straining at the seams, when Kurt had been steady and pleased and self-satisfied.

“So, The Thing?” he’d said.

Blaine had spun his way off the steps to a brownstone and replied, “The Thing.”

They’re already kissing and pawing at each other when they trip inside their apartment, dark but for the streetlights and lit up signs barging uninvited through the cracks in their curtains and blinds and the bottom of the door. Kurt has his buff, toned arms wound around Blaine’s back, his thigh between Blaine’s legs, his tongue in Blaine’s mouth.

The traffic outside and the muffled moans and grunts rattling their chests and throats, the thunk of Blaine’s body against the door as he rides Kurt’s thigh is background din, nothing compared to the loud rush of blood in his ears. They’re newlyweds still and they act like it, the sex has been copious and enthusiastic, but sometimes it’s because they’re both reading in bed and Blaine’s magazine isn’t keeping his attention and Kurt’s body is warm and there and it’s easy enough to roll him over and get off and roll himself back over and go to sleep.

It’s seldom desperate anymore, is the thing. Not like it was when all of their moments were secret and stolen, when Kurt’s body was a thunderbolt of discovery every time.

Kurt fingernails claw his back with a sharp, keen wanting and it’s nice. Knowing they can have that still.

His shirt is yanked off and his pants dragged down. Kurt steps away to take off his designer T-shirt and beanie and tight tight pants, folds them while he very deliberately drags his gaze all over Blaine’s body. Blaine stands against the door, his belly heaving with ragged breaths, his pulse slamming and blood whooshing in his throat and ears and cock.

“You look so good, lately,” Kurt says, walking backwards the few steps towards their room. “I mean you always look good, but—”

He’s one to talk: lean and so wide and flat and carved with hard muscle. The shadowed light catches his profile in stark relief, that sharp jaw and sloping cheekbones and proud jutting chin. Otherworldly beautiful in ways Blaine often can’t find words for.

He stretches inside the closet again, long long legs and broad muscled back. His briefs pull in with the shift of his pert, round cheeks as he bend and reaches. Blaine’s cock twitches against the front of his.

Kurt comes down off his toes, holding the slim plastic package, with a picture of a bare hairless hard pink dick, between his index finger and thumb, says with that same scrunched, skeptical face, “So I just—Put it on my…Self?”

He stands inside the threshold of their bedroom, leaning on one shoulder and hesitating, like a nervous, sexy incubus waiting for an invitation.

“Your cock?” Blaine says, eyebrows raised in challenge. He strips off his underwear, tosses them in the general direction of the hamper and turns with his hands on his hips. “It’s a cock ring. So yes, you put it on your cock.”

Kurt rolls his eyes but steps forward. It’s brighter in here, just a bit, with the art deco vintage style crackled glass globe lamp on the bedside table. A flea market find. One without bedbugs.

“You just want an excuse to say that,” Kurt says, free hand cupping Blaine’s bare hip, cheeks red and pupils wide.

Blaine’s mouth tips with a grin as he leans in to catch Kurt’s lips, whispers, “Cock,” just before they meet.

And still the rushing in his ears, a constant hush and murmur of desire. Kurt walks him back to bed, wriggles out of his briefs and covers Blaine’s naked body with his own. Curves and twists and ruts against him until it’s not enough, frustrating instead of tantalizing.

Blaine reaches for the cock ring snapped back into its display packaging, struggles to open it while Kurt’s mouth works one of his nipples with teeth and tongue and distracting suckling pulls.

Finally the package opens, and the ring plops awkwardly onto his chest. Kurt lifts his mouth away and frowns at it.

“We don’t—” Blaine says, at the exact same time that Kurt blurts, “Did you want—”

Blaine laughs. “We don’t have to.”

Kurt huffs, props himself on Blaine’s chest and says, “Blaine, I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. You wanted me to…” He looks down at his own groin.

“Put it on your cock?” Blaine fills in.

Kurt pinches his side and tuts, “Yes,” after Blaine squeaks indignantly. “That’s what you wanted?”

“It’s all spiky. It’s strange looking,” Kurt had said.

“I think they’re like—Pleasure nubs. Imagine what the vibration feels like inside.”

“I’m good either way,” Blaine tells him, Kurt’s eyes steady on him, Kurt’s huge palm skimming his thigh.

“Blaine.” Up his hip, across his stomach, down the groove marking the line of his torso.

Blaine shivers. “Yes. I want that.”

He can see the shift, when Kurt goes from unsure to determined, the flare of his nose and the set of his jaw, the way his spine bows and snaps rigid when he gets to his knees. Blaine pushes up on his elbows to watch.

Kurt strokes his cock a few times, holds the base steady and stretches the ring over the bulbous head, rolls it down until its tight around the base. It makes it the shaft look harder and bigger and darker, veins bulging beneath the skin, blood trapped dusky purple and flushing the tip.

“How does it feel?” Blaine breathes out, ears whoosh whooshing and heart pounding. “Because it looks amazing.”

“It feels…” He fiddles with it, turning it so the little vibrating bullet presses against his balls. Flips the switch. Groans. His eyes flutter closed. “Really good.”

Blaine gets lube and Kurt kneels between his legs, hauls his ass up and sets Blaine’s spread thighs high up near his hips. When he fingers Blaine it’s messy and choppy, his rock hard cock vibrating against Blaine’s ass, pelvis churning restlessly, around and next to and seeking entrance but not quite there.

Kurt bites his lip, twists his fingers, thrusts against Blaine’s leg with a whine. Blaine thrashes, grips the headboard and asks, “Is it too much?”

Kurt’s face is bliss and agony and concentration. “Almost,” he finally manages. “God, can I? I need it, oh. I need to fuck you.”

Blaine nods and nods and moans, “Yes.”

Kurt parts Blaine thighs with one dry hand and one slippery, lingers again on Blaine’s body: His chest and arms, his cock heavy against his stomach, his open legs and hole. Kurt’s eyebrows crease in thought, he frowns and twists his lips, flicks his head and says, “Over?”

Blaine flips to his stomach, flat on the bed. Two of Kurt’s fingers tap his side.

“Up?”

Blaine scrambles to his hands and knees, his cock hanging heavy, his arms trembling, holding him up as Kurt moves in behind him. It feels the same at first: Kurt’s hands curled around his hips, the blunt pressure, the stretch, the pinch, the give of relaxation and acceptance.

The cock ring keeps him so hard and so hot, and the vibrations spark Blaine’s every nerve in bright white bursts of pleasure. Blaine soon understands what Kurt means by it almost being too much.

It feels amazing. So amazing it’s difficult for his body and mind to cope, overwhelming in a good way, like a carnival ride: All flashes of neon light and joyful music and laughter and spinning and twisting and screaming upside down and sideways. A high noise climbs from his throat every time Kurt’s hips snap against his ass. His arms give out, so he moans brokenly into his pillow instead with his knees still under him and ass high in the air, holds on tight while the bed rocks and squeaks beneath them.

Kurt is saying something filthy, raunchy in the way he only ever is just before orgasm. Blaine grips the pillow, smashes his face into it, nose crushed and eyes popping with stars.

Kurt’s pace is frantic, skin slapping skin. He grabs the flesh of Blaine’s right cheek, digs his fingers in. Blaine can feel phantom bruising already, and Kurt grits out, “Love the way you take my cock, fuck your ass, Blaine. I love it, love—Fuck.”

He collapses heavily over Blaine, convulses and moves his hips in ever slowing thrusts until he’s wrung out and lethargic.

“Kurt. Kurt Kurt Kurt,” is all Blaine manages to wheeze out. He’s effectively trapped, face in the pillow and arms curled around it, bent and folded underneath Kurt and aching aching aching.

“Mmm, I’ve got you.” Kurt kneels back up and pulls Blaine against him with an arm around his chest, a hand around his cock. Says breathlessly into his ear, “Take what you need, honey.”

Blaine sits in his lap, back to chest, gripping his own disheveled hair. Kurt is still mostly hard inside of him still thanks to the ring, the vibrations buzzing away, and if he grinds down just right, right there, it’s perfect, so fucking perfect. He lifts and falls, lifts and falls, but just a little, just enough. Kurt holds him there and jacks his cock and vibrates inside of him until he comes and comes, writhes on Kurt’s lap and comes some more.

“Well.” Kurt works off the cock ring, sets it down between their sweaty, limp bodies.

“Well, indeed,” Blaine says, surprised at how wrecked and hoarse his voice is. How loud was he, exactly?

“I think the neighbors got to hear that one,” Kurt says with a chuckle.

“I can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in my ears,” Blaine says, looking at Kurt with a sideways grin.

Kurt’s eyes narrow. “Wait, you can hear that, too?”

“The whooshing noise?” Blaine sits, shuts off the still vibrating ring. He tips his head, strains his ears, furrows his brows. “It’s not in my head.”

Kurt sits, slides off the bed and slips on his silk robe. “I think it’s coming from the bathroom.”

Blaine feels it before he sees it. Water. Kurt flips on the bathroom light. Puddles of water on the tile floor, gushing from the toilet, saturating the bathmat and threatening to seep out into the hallway. At least it’s clean. Small mercies.

“Shit,” Kurt says.

“Buzzkill,” Blaine sighs.

Kurt looks over, gives Blaine’s naked body an eyebrow raised, pinch-mouthed glance. “Feel like putting on some pants and snaking a toilet?”

“No,” Blaine grumps. He carefully goes back to the room, finds some cutoff sweatpants he can live without if it comes to that, some towels and the toolbox that Burt gave them as a wedding present. Uncouth, perhaps, but smart and practical and exactly what they didn’t know they needed. As the perfect present from Burt Hummel would be.

Blaine wades back into the flooded bathroom, mops up water as Kurt cuts off the water supply valve behind the toilet.

“Married adult life is just chockfull of surprises,” Blaine muses to himself.

Kurt is contorted and hunched around the toilet, scowls at Blaine and asks, “Did you just say cockfull?”

Blaine laughs, drops a sopping wet towel into the tub with a squelching plop. “Yeah,” he says. “Married life is very cockfull.”


	6. You And I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Kurt and Blaine get turned on by boring domestic things. (The weirdos.)

**1\. Unclogging the toilet**

“Okay, begin by placing the head into the bottom.”

“Blaine.”

Blaine resolutely does not laugh, because Kurt is already annoyed, glaring at him and standing stiffly over the toilet that is clogged, again. So Blaine protests with his voice only wavering a little, “That’s what it says!”

Kurt sighs and places the toilet snake down into the bowl. “Now what?”

“Turn in a clockwise motion,” he snorts a little, “inserting gently but firmly.”

“Blaine I swear to-”

“That’s what it says!” He holds his phone up so Kurt can see the instructions he Googled. Kurt starts to work the toilet snake in while Blaine watches from the edge of the bathtub. It’s been a long day for both of them; full time work and summer classes now, and they really just wanted a quiet dinner and maybe some quality couch time and then some fooling around time, and really the last thing either of them wanted to deal with was a toilet gushing water onto the floor. Yet again.

But Kurt looks so hot; his sleeves rolled up and biceps flexing as he pushes the tool in, his jaw clenched and face determined. Plus he’s wearing those pants Blaine loves. They make his legs look miles long and cup his ass just right. Blaine leans back, tilts his head. Mmhmm. Just right.

“Okay. Once you feel resistance on the rod, pull back then gently push back in, back and forth, until the blockage breaks loose.”

Kurt pauses, turns to stare at him. “Really.”

Blaine grins. “Yep.”

Kurt flicks a look up to the ceiling, then starts to work the snake in, back and forth, back and forth, and Blaine gets so lost watching his whole body flex and release, flex and release that he’s almost disappointed when Kurt announces, “Oh! Got something!”

“Please don’t be a rat, please don’t be a rat,” Blaine mutters as Kurt winds and winds the snake back out. Something emerges, brown and about half a foot long, and–

“That’s where my hairbrush went,” Kurt marvels, pulling the dripping brush out of the toilet bowl. “Huh.”

Blaine crosses one leg neatly over the other, purses his lips and pitches his voice a little higher and little more clipped than usual. “What did you do with my hairbrush, Blaine?” He imitates. “Why do you put things in such nonsensical places, Blaine?”

Kurt drops the hairbrush into the trashcan with an echoing thunk. “Okay, sorry. You were right, I was wrong.”

Blaine stands up from the tub to lean against the counter while Kurt washes his hands. “Sorry, what was that? I was what?”

Kurt shakes his head, works his jaw. He turns off the water, dries his hands and says, “Look, I know what kind of mood you’re in. I saw you staring at my ass. So you can play this one of two ways: You can be right, or you can get laid.”

Blaine presses a finger to his lips.

“Well?” Kurt says.

“I’m thinking,” Blaine replies.

Kurt hums, then leaves the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. “You take all the time you need. I’ll be naked in bed if you’d like a second opinion.”

Kurt’s shirt doesn’t even make it to the floor before Blaine pounces on him. Some things in life are more important than being right.

**2\. Couponing**

Kurt takes advantage of a Sunday off by sleeping in so late that he expects Blaine to have given up on him by now and gone off to hang out with Artie or Elliott. Or maybe even gone white water rafting in the Catskills or to a Monster Truck show or become a last minute roller derby team member or whatever insanity Brittany and Santana have talked him into this time.

He yawns and stretches out across the bed, rubs his neck and bare stomach and briefly down to his pleasant, but not urgent, morning erection. Takes a satisfied breath in through his nose and gets up. It smells like Blaine’s cinnamon-orange French toast, and coffee. Kurt smiles as he walks to the kitchen. He’s so lucky to have such a sweet, caring husband to make him breakfast and let him sleep in. He rubs the last lingering remnants of drowsiness from his eyes and thinks about all the ways he wants to thank Blaine when he gets home.

Only–

“Blaine?”

“Morning sleepy-head,” Blaine sing-songs. He’s sitting at the kitchen table cutting something out, with several stacks of newspapers, brightly colored binders, and ad inserts strewn everywhere. His phone is set to the side, his laptop on the other and a label maker in his lap.

“What are you–” Kurt says, then decides to get coffee instead of finishing his question. He’s still not awake enough for this. Blaine shrugs and gets back to whatever he’d been doing, humming happily and dancing in his seat. Kurt warms up some French toast, clears a spot at the table and tries again.

“What is happening here?”

“I’m couponing,” Blaine chirps.

“Couponing,” Kurt repeats. Blaine nods and takes the coupon he had just cut out, slips it into a clear baseball card style plastic sheet, then prints out a label with a date and store name. He looks like a 1980’s housefrau, and proudly so.

“You organize by type of coupon, then by department,” Blaine explains. “Then by store and by date. That way you’re organized ahead of time and know exactly where and when the best deals are.” He clips, slides coupons in, prints another label. Kurt eats his breakfast-slash-lunch and watches his exuberant, enthusiastic husband with a fond half-smile.

“Oh!” Blaine says suddenly, practically leaping from his chair in excitement. “If you get lucky and the stars align, sometimes you’ll have a double coupon plus a buy one get one free at the store plus a reward program cash back offer and you can actually make money on a purchase!”

Kurt swallows a mouthful of French toast and mutters, “I’m so turned on right now.”

Blaine slumps back into his seat and frowns. “Don’t make fun, okay? We can save a lot of money doing this.”

“I am completely serious,” Kurt says. “You know how hot and bothered a good sale gets me.”

“Oh,” Blaine looks up, blinks and smirks. “Oh.”

“Come on, let’s go,” Kurt drops his fork and hops up from his chair, but Blaine doesn’t move.

“It’s just–” He flips to a page in the blue binder. “Fairway has a really good deal on strawberries right now. Buy two get one free plus a fifty cent coupon, and they double and–”

Kurt drops into his lap, shuts him up with a dirty kiss, grinds down in his lap and breathes, “Oh god just take me right here.”

Unfortunately some of the coupons get wrinkled, or otherwise… soiled. But Kurt likes to think they got pretty lucky anyway.

**3\. Washing dishes**

“It’s your turn,” Kurt says, patting his full belly and sinking onto the couch with a groan.

“What? No way. I did the dishes this morning.” Blaine lifts Kurt’s legs up so he can sit, then sets Kurt’s feet in his lap.

“Blaine, I cooked.” Kurt says, wiggling his toes so Blaine will rub his feet.

“We both cooked.” 

He presses his thumb against the arch of Kurt’s foot and rubs in little circles. Kurt groans again, dropping his head back against the armrest.

“You cut up some vegetables. I grilled and sauteed and flambeed–”

Blaine chuckles. “You spilled some of your wine onto the chicken while you were cooking, that doesn’t count as flambeing.”

Kurt flaps a hand at him. “The point is, I cooked us a delicious meal–”

“We cooked a delicious meal.”

“..and the least you can do is wash the dishes…Oh god right there.”

Blaine digs his thumb in harder and Kurt moans, wiggles his hips, flutters his eyes closed, and licks his lips. Blaine slips his hands up to Kurt’s ankles, then his calves, rubbing and massaging. Up to his knees and then his thighs, high up the insides to the join of hip and thigh, rubs and rubs and–

“Okay, I’ll do the dishes,” Blaine says. He moves his hands up and away from Kurt’s body and goes to stand.

“No wait,” Kurt grabs his wrist, shifts so he can pull Blaine against his chest and between his legs. “I mean, no hurry.”

Blaine grins in triumph, moves in to kiss him and puts his hand back where it had just been, then murmurs against Kurt’s lips, “Don’t forget: no soap on the cast iron skillet. Since it’s your turn to do the dishes and all.”

Kurt growls, “Just shut up and kiss me.”

Blaine does. He ends up doing the dishes, too. But only because he’s feeling very, very generous tonight. And because Kurt promised to clean the bathroom.

**4\. Public school vs. Private school discussion**

“Hey Kurt, are you registered to vote in this district?” Blaine calls from the living room.

“Of course,” Kurt answers. He finishes up in the kitchen, loads two egg salad sandwiches, a bowl of fruit salad and two dewey ice-cold glasses of raspberry limeade onto a serving tray and heads the the couch. “Why?”

Blaine shuts off the news and takes half a sandwich. “Because there’s a school bond referendum coming up that we should vote yes for.”

Kurt nibbles his own sandwich. Should have added more dill. “For arts education?” He’s always happy to support the arts.

“No, just improvements and renovations.” Blaine looks down at his lunch thoughtfully. “Did you add tarragon to this?”

“Yes. And thyme.” Kurt sets his food down and brushes the crumbs from his hands. “Not that I don’t care about the state of our local schools, but why is it so important for us to vote on this bond in particular?”

“Because when our kids go to school…” he says around a mouthful, pausing to say, “This is delicious by the way.” Kurt thanks him and squeezes his knee and Blaine smiles and continues, “When our kids go to school I’d like for them to still be in decent shape, you know.”

“I agree,” Kurt says. “That’s why they’ll go to private school.”

Blaine’s eyebrows furrow. Kurt shakes his glass so the ice cubes tinkle cheerfully.

“Kurt, are you forgetting what Dalton was like? The kinds of kids who go there? The snobby, insular, old-money families who send their kids to private school?”

“Sure,” Kurt allows. “I also remember the stringent no-bullying policy, the superior academics, and robust arts programs.”

“But–”

“No.”

“What about–”

“Nope.”

Blaine throws his hands to the side in frustration, dropping the last of his sandwich onto the coffee table. “Why are you shutting me down?”

Kurt sets his glass back on the tray, turns to face Blaine and takes his hands tightly between his own. “Because I understand your concerns, and I’ve already found some schools that are arts based and not quite as stuffy as Dalton.” He looks down at their hands, lifts a shoulder and admits, “I think about them a lot, our future children and I just–I want them to know that they can be whatever their little hearts desire and they’ll always be safe and loved and accepted for who they are. It’s silly to think that far ahead I know.”

“It’s not. It’s not silly at all. It’s wonderful.” Blaine pulls their clasped hands to his chest and looks at Kurt like he’s the most astonishing creature he’s ever laid eyes on. It makes Kurt blush. “You’re going to be the most amazing father.”

Kurt ducks his head and grins. “You, too.”

There’s a long moment where they don’t speak, but Kurt knows they’re thinking about the same things: The future. Their future. Building a family together.

“Do you wanna pretend we have a sleeping baby and have to have really quiet, fast, desperate sex before they wake up?”

Kurt snaps his head up and stares at Blaine with his mouth dropped open.

“God, yes.”

**5\. Shopping at Ikea**

He loses Kurt somewhere in lighting fixtures. He gets turned around after spotting a pendant lamp shade that looks like a crumpled piece of paper. Blaine doesn’t know why he wants it, he just knows that he does.

Blaine looks around, doesn’t see Kurt and can no longer justify the desire for a crumpled-paper overhead pendant lamp, so he maneuvers his cart into the crowded walkway like another log joining a slow-moving jammed-up flume. No Kurt in home organization. No Kurt in rugs. No Kurt in textiles.

Blaine: Where are you?

Kurt: Warehouse. Hurry up I want a cinnamon roll.

Blaine shuffles ahead a few inches and gets stuck again, behind a couple who seem to be perplexed by the selection of curtain rods. How did Kurt manage to get to the warehouse already? Or, more to the point, how many people did he death-glare out of his way as he was leaving Blaine in the dust?

Blaine: Can’t. Trapped. Losing strength. Night is falling. Remember me, Kurt. Remember me.

Kurt: I’ll eat your cinnamon roll for you.

Blaine: ):

Kurt: Just get mean and push past people.

Blaine: D:

By the time he makes it to the warehouse and finds Kurt in one of the towering, massive aisles, Blaine is frazzled and has a cart full of things they didn’t have on the list and don’t actually need: Towels and batteries and candles, chocolate bars and a stuffed carrot toy, star-shaped ice cube trays and a vase that resembles an old-fashioned milk pail.

Kurt looks at the cart and says, “Why?”

Blaine shakes his head sadly. “I don’t even know anymore.”

Kurt lifts his eyebrows and makes a vague noise, then goes back to the list in his hand. “Okay. I think I wrote down the wrong aisle and bin for that kitchen shelf thing. What was it called?”

“Olafstop? Olfstoop?” Blaine pulls out his phone. Because he took a picture. Because he did not want to relive the great Ivar vs. Omar storage system debacle from their last Ikea trip. “Olofstorp.”

“Of course, how could I have possibly forgotten,” Kurt says dryly.

They manage to locate the wall cabinet that they desperately need for storage in their cubby-hole sized kitchen, survive checking out, then drop into wobbly chairs at a little round table to eat their cinnamon rolls and cheap coffee.

“Sorry for leaving you behind,” Kurt says, licking icing off his fingers. “I just get a little…”

“Single-minded and overzealous?” Blaine fills in.

“I like to think that I’m just the right amount of zealous,” Kurt sniffs.

“You are to me,” Blaine says. He wipes a dollop of cinnamon and sugar from the corner of Kurt’s mouth.

Kurt’s eyes quickly go dark. “Wanna go test out some beds?”

Blaine grins and wipes his own mouth. “Why don’t we go home and argue about how to put this cabinet together, and then you can do something brilliant with that vase I bought for some reason, then we can make out among allen wrenches and that one bolt we can’t figure out the purpose of.”

“The we test out our own bed,” Kurt says. “Just to make sure we don’t need an upgrade.”

Blaine bumps their knees together under the table. “Sounds perfect.”


	7. Splendid Silent Sun

A car alarm goes off every Sunday morning at five, as predicable as a rooster and just as obnoxious. Blaine doesn’t know who it belongs to, where they’re going this early on a Sunday, or why they can’t seem to remember that their car has an alarm system. But he does know that Kurt will snuffle and grunt and shove his face under his pillow. He’ll try to ignore it. He’ll grunt louder. Finally he’ll peek his head from beneath the pillow, hair askew and face crease-lined, and with one eye squeezed shut one very reluctantly opened will shout, “Oh my god, shut up!”

The alarm will go off—though it has nothing to do with Kurt’s indignant, sleepy shouting at the closed window—and they’ll both go back to sleep. Every Sunday morning.

Blaine always wakes first. He’s a big believer in healthy sleep habits, so he’s in bed at a reasonable time (usually) and awake at the same time (just about.) If he doesn’t have an early class to get to or a piano lesson to give, he still gets up. It gives him time to practice or compose or polish up an essay, and cook breakfast for Kurt (sometimes.) Their mornings tend to be busy; a well-coordinated dance by now, weaving in and out and around each other in the bedroom and kitchen and bathroom and tiny hall closet; minty kisses and coats halfway on and _don’t forget to stop by the bank!_

A text from Kurt later: _Forgot to tell you I love you. I love you._ Blaine will send back a heart or love-struck emoji, because he knows now without Kurt telling him, but he’s so grateful that Kurt takes to the time to remind him anyway, even when their lives are a cyclone of chaos. Especially then.

But Sundays.

Blaine drifts back to sleep after the car alarm, wakes not much later to Kurt in his arms, soothed back into a deep sleep. Blaine shifts, and Kurt shifts, and now Blaine can rest his head on Kurt’s broad chest, can curl an arm over his trim waist, can nuzzle his nose in the dip of his clavicle where he smells the best, like salty skin and lingering spicy cologne and flowery laundry soap and Kurt. A scent he has no specific name for but knows by a deep-driven instinct.

Blaine sighs happily against his skin, Kurt smacks his lips and sleeps on. The room grows brighter in a lazy slide to morning, sunlight demanding behind the vertical blinds and gauzy curtains, throwing slanted lines of gold on the floor and wall across. Outside on the street and sidewalks below the city sounds tick up in volume: car engines and horns, dogs barking, people shouting, doors slamming and trashcans clanking. A church bell chimes the hour. Seven, now.

Blaine doesn’t move, not yet, but doesn’t go back to sleep. Kurt mumbles something unintelligible in his dreams. Blaine thinks about a song he’s been working on, imagines his hands on the keys playing it flawlessly. He tries to remember when the Buckeyes game is on, was it twelve or three thirty? And is it worth bundling up and trekking out to Union Square for the hot chocolate festival or should they just stay in? Can they push grocery shopping back another few days if they do stay in?

Blaine’s stomach grumbles. Kurt stirs with a full-body stretch, evicting Blaine from his comfortable resting spot on Kurt’s torso.

“Morning,” Blaine says.

“Mmph.” Kurt’s eyes stay closed, his mouth downturned. He rolls to his side and holds his arms open. “Early,” he grumps.

“Almost eight,” Blaine says, adjusting easily to the little spoon position. Kurt makes a displeased noise at the time update. He pulls Blaine’s back snug against his chest, wiggles his hips into the tucked-up curve of Blaine’s ass, tangles his legs between. Makes a happy noise.

“I was thinking of making crepes with fresh mascarpone cream and strawberries.” Blaine’s stomach rumbles again. Kurt’s arms are solid and tight around Blaine’s chest and stomach, his breath is slowing and evening out. Blaine isn’t going anywhere.

His mind drifts again, then he watches a tiny spider creep along the floorboards while Kurt’s chest rises and falls rhythmically against his back, now draped heavy and limp over him instead of holding him tight. A thumping noise starts up next door. He loses track of the spider while he tires to figure it out. Hanging a picture? Hanging several pictures? Hanging many, many pictures? Jumping rope. Dribbling a basketball. Hopscotch. They’re probably doing something much less wholesome, but Blaine would really rather pretend they’re playing double-dutch.

“Ugh,” Kurt says, awake now.

Good, Blaine is starving. “Come on sleepyhead. Food and coffee time.” He usually has to drag Kurt from bed, or bring their breakfast in on a tray. Either is fine with him, just as long as they eat something.

Kurt makes it clear he has other priorities. As usual, on Sunday mornings.

He grinds his hips against Blaine’s ass with intention this time, up in all senses of the word. Kurt half-asleep and horny is so different from their usual love making. Kurt is so sure of all the ways he can take Blaine apart now, sharply confident, sexily skilled. His hips snap and roll and pivot, his fingers stretch and tweak and twist just right. His mouth slides sinuous, his tongue curls wicked, his teeth catch and hold and—

He knows what he’s doing. He knows he knows what he’s doing.

But on Sunday mornings he’s fumbling and clumsy and slow. Tugs and pulls Blaine’s briefs down until they’re twisted, constricting Blaine’s thighs. Takes Blaine in hand and strokes him too loose and halting, like he knows what he wants but can’t quite remember how to get there. Blaine’s pleasure is trickling thick syrup, slowly melting butter, the hot percolating drip drip drip of coffee into a pot.

His stomach grumbles again, and Blaine chuckles softly at himself. Food or sex, the ultimate Sunday morning dilemma.

Kurt gets impatient then, whining high and breathy in Blaine’s ear and rubbing himself with increasingly desperate frustration. Blaine takes pity on him, rolls Kurt onto his back, crawls beneath the covers, peels his underwear down just enough and sucks him. Not long, it never takes long at this point, not on Sunday mornings. Kurt spreads his limbs across the bed like a starfish, hums and sighs, relaxed in the morning sunshine. He comes with a silent, stuttered breath, and Blaine strokes himself to orgasm, gets to see Kurt like this, with bedhead and blotchy skin and languid with bliss. Gets to have him like this every Sunday morning, forever. 

Blaine falls back asleep. Wakes up dangling off the edge of the bed like he had tried and failed to escape its grasp. He’s ravenous. And alone. Kurt is not in the bed, not in the bedroom, and the bathroom is dark and empty. When Blaine sits up he can see the back of the couch and the corner of the living room they’ve designated as the dining area, the little round bistro table also empty.

“Oh good you’re up.” Kurt comes in with a breakfast tray and a skip in his step, places it down and slides back into bed.

He’s made waffles, not crepes, with raspberry syrup instead of mascarpone cream and fresh strawberries. Blaine eats three, pulls a fourth onto his plate.

“Good?” Kurt’s eyes are bright, his cheeks pink, his grin wide.

“Perfect,” Blaine says and kisses the corner of his upturned mouth.

They have emails and texts answer and phone calls to make, there are people who want to see them, places they want to go. They need to shower and shave and start laundry and grocery shopping really can’t wait, and Blaine read that one of the hot chocolate festival vendors makes their own marshmallows from scratch and that’s not something to miss. But for now…

Blaine finishes his last waffle, settles his head on Kurt’s shoulder and drifts, full and content, hands warm around his coffee mug, his husband at his side. Right now he wants to go nowhere. Nothing exists outside of this bed, nothing matters but them. Just for a little while longer because they can, on Sunday mornings.


End file.
